


One year's time

by elektra121



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra121/pseuds/elektra121
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness surrounds her, desperation, agony, but she still is not allowed to die, even now. He has left her behind, and she does not even have a window looking to the East, looking to death.<br/>13 drabbles that feature Eowyn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One year's time

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Jahreskreis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/681483) by [elektra121](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elektra121/pseuds/elektra121). 



> This was my contribution to the German fanfiction-drabble-project „Jeder Monat hat hundert Worte“ ( „A month is 100 words“) that features one character in a drabble for every month of the year.

**December - DARKNESS**

The last night of the year has come, moonless, starless, hopeless and bitterly cold.

The few flickering lights do not suffice to brighten up the all-consuming darkness. The smouldering fireside does not suffice to ban the cold breath of winter from the Golden Hall.

The hangings that used to tell of times of glory are worn, the faces of men are worn too, used to grief. She passes the deepest hours of night waking, quiet and cold, among the others, waiting for dawn. But the dull morning light does not bring back hope, only prospect of one year more, nearer to desperation, nearer to death.

 

 

**January – ICE**

Cold, outwards and inwards. Icy hands and aching feet that even by the fireside never warm fully. Stiff fingers and clammy blankets and exhausting shivers, from early morning till late night, even in sleep, even in dreams.

And yet… it is a good thing to have the cold to keep her together. For what would happen, if some other fire would warm her, if some other blankets and some warm words would melt her inside and unfreeze her heart? Nothing would be left of her, only water, seeping away.

But ice is straight and clear, and hard and sharp like glassy daggers.

 

 

**February – SNOW**

Snow, alluring and dangerous. Seemingly innocent and white, but treacherous. Covering traps that bring about downfall, and obscuring clear vision. Enticing with its softness, its gentleness, its power to cover up anything, level anything, in sparkling beauty. But also covering tracks and paths until you go astray and get lost.

She must not become soft like snow, she must not give in. And yet… somehow she longs to, yearns to get lost, to let herself fall into it like a child and feel its fluffy kiss on her cheek.

 

 

**March – MIRE**

Muddy pathways. The thawing of the ground is a forerunner of springtime, but it brings no joy, only more difficulties. Day after day now there is rain, melting away the last remainders of snow, turning the ground beneath the horses’ hooves into mire. Every step is labour.

Looking at the wains with their heavy wheels – furrowing their way through the mud, getting stuck only too often and having to be yanked with greatest effort, only to get stuck again a few feet from there – Éowyn has to think of how it would feel to cast herself beneath them to finally end this agonising existence.

 

 

**April - WIND**

The fresh wind from the plain brings curious news. Strangers, as though risen out of some fairy-tale: an Elf, a Dwarf, a Wizard. And a man, ragged like a beggar, with a brow like a hero, who does like the warriors of old did: riding to war with the King. Honourable, with prospect of some praiseworthy death.

And it is then she cries, out of relief, out of sheer joy, that there is finally someone to fight alongside with – to love – to die for; like in some great and wonderful song of old.

 

 

**May - A WISH**

Darkness surrounds her, desperation, agony, but she still is not allowed to die, even now. He has left her behind, and she does not even have a window looking to the East, looking to death.

She has had a short and fruitless talk with the Steward on that matter. The next morning she meets a fellow-prisoner sharing her fate, but expecting from her hope she cannot deliver. On the third day a friendly man gives her a mantle, against the cold wind, how strange, for she is cold from the inside. The fourth day she has long conversations with a friend, who understands, who knows, like herself, that this, here, is the end.

But on the fifth day, when she finally faces the long longed-for death, suddenly she rather wishes to live a few days more, to stay with this friend for just a little longer, here in this garden, at the end of time.

 

 

**June – VICTORY**

Victory is here, but it does not feel like victory at all, and her darkness returns. She walks the gardens, lonely again, and she does not understand herself. Her brother asks that she come to the celebrations, but she does not go. The King does not ask for her. Is this why she stays?

It is as though something is keeping her in this garden, as though she is searching for something she held for a short time and has lost again.

At last a visitor comes for her, and stands beside her on the walls again, and finally she realises what it is that is making her stay.

 

 

**July – JUSTICE**

She returns home, even though for a short time, and still, saying farewell is hard. Rohan seems unreal, familiar yet strange, as if she had been away for a lifetime.

The Golden Hall is still abandoned and has to be filled with life anew. On the threshold of Meduseld she takes her brother’s hand – a promise to support him, to help him in making everything new.

And as the new king administers justice, she is by his side, sitting in the place of the counselor, for he wants no one but her to be there. And all the people that come before the King say that none would sit there more rightly than she.

 

 

**August – THE SKY**

The sky has never been so wide, nor so high, nor so splendid. Full of stars by night, so full they fall down. Her days are equally full of duties and chores, but at night she manages to steal away from the Golden Hall – and he waits for her under the stars. Somehow, it is like she has a secret lover, though he is anything but a secret.

They wander the nightly fields, listening to the rustling of the ripening herbs’ ears, smelling the barley; and out there there is nobody but them, Nightbride and Starlord, with earth for their bed and sky for their blanket.

 

 

**September – LEARNING**

The days – and not so few nights – in the Houses of Healing are filled with work and learning. It is satisfying work and there is much to learn. Many things seem wholly new and strange to her. She has never known of herbs and ointments, never known the art of healing wounds. The art of making wounds had been her pride instead.

But when she washes the sick and feeds them soup and whispers to them words of hope, somehow it feels very familiar and it teaches her some new sort of pride, where she had never thought there could be anything to be proud of.

 

 

**October – THE SUNSET**

The most dear of all dwellings – she has called it, but she would not have thought to dwell there for so long without him who is the cause it has become the most dear dwelling.

Indeed, there is much work to do, for both of them, and that is good and rightly so. But she cannot and will never understand why in Gondor marriage counts not until the wedding and not from trothplight. And why the whole city of Minas Tirith guards her virtue so jealously she is not even allowed to stay the night at the house of the Steward, even though he is her husband since those nights in the fields, and everybody who owns a heart surely must know that.

Every evening he comes one hour before sunset, and this one precious hour is theirs and they walk in the garden and tell each other about their daily chores, until the warden politely reminds it is time and the Steward has to play by the rules and return home.

 

**November – REMEMBRANCE**

The days become cold and dark, but she has a mantle keeping her warm, and her heart is light.

A letter from Merry comes to her, telling of the strange tales that happened in his home and how they concern her home also. And it is then she realises how the world has changed in the span of one year’s time.

Théoden, whose body lived and whose glory was gone and whose body now lies buried and whose glory lives on. The counselor, whose victory _seemed_ and whose defeat now _is_ certain. Éomer, the banished, who is now king.

And she herself, the lost one, found.

 

**December – CELEBRATION**

The last night of the year has come, and the King’s celebration outshines the moon and the stars.

The halls are ablaze with light and full of laughter and music, warm with firelight and hospitality. The blazing colours of the gowns are competing with the guests’ faces, coloured from dancing and wine.

Dancing with the Steward and the King, and singing with the others, and applauding the musicians, there is no trace of bitterness or envy or grief left inside her.

The kiss at midnight promises so many blissful years to come, and the true joy has only just begun.


End file.
